memoir

Cousin Kathleen and the Groundhog

imageThis is the time of year we’d visit Cousin Kathleen, a tiny, self-sufficient, little mountain woman.  The first time Bud and I went to visit at her little house clinging to the side of a mountain in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Moutains we were lingering over coffee at the breakfast table overlooking her garden when she spotted a fat groundhog eating her tomatoes.  Without a word, she jumped up, grabbed a 357 pistol off the top of her refrigerator and flew out the back door firing a shot.  The ground hog escaped, but she blew the tomato plant away!  She was quite disappointed, since she’d been planning to eat him.  Later that morning, we caught a couple of trout in Little Wilson Creek, Just down from her house.  Bud usually practiced catch and release, but she was outraged at the thought.  Rushing us home, by ten- thirty she had cooked and trout eaten them all herself, horrified to think they might have been wasting their afternoon back in the creek.

That afternoon, we had to go see the cemetery.  Cousin Kathleen proudly confided she “ran” the cemetery.  Not sure what that meant, I had to ask.

“I am in charge of the man who mows.  I keep up with the money.  I decide where folks get plots.  I am the one to call in case of emergencies.”

I wanted to ask what kind of emergencies cemeteries might have, except for the rapture, of course, but kept my mouth shut.

One morning, Cousin Kathleen took us out to see the countryside.  Deep in the hills, she had Bud whip into a drive.  “I used to work with the woman who lives here.  Come on.  I want you to meet her.”  Uncomfortable at dropping in on unknown mountaineers, we dragged a little getting out.  A man in overalls sat on the porch.

“Where’s Molly?  I sed to work with her.”  Cousin Kathleen greeted him.

“Molly’s gone.”

Clearly anxious to see her friend, Cousin Kathleen demanded, “Gone where?  When will she be back?”

“She’s dead.  She ain’t gonna be back.”

“Oh well, see you later, then.”  She scurried back to the car with us right her.  “Well, I sure never heard she was dead!”  I kind of thought she hadn’t by that time.

We went fishing that afternnoon.  For dinner that night, we had fresh-caught trout, green beans and potatoes, tomatoes, and cucumbers fresh from the garden.  For dessert, we had fresh rhubarb cobbler.  What a wonderful dinner and day of memories!

 

 

 

 

 

That “Kathy Bates” Look

kathy bates in misery

Though it’s been awhile since I inflicted any mayhem upon him, my brother says it still gives him the “willies” when I get that “Kathy Bates” look.  I think he’s referring to the Annie Wilkes character she plays so winningly in the movie “Misery.”  To set the record straight, I love Kathy Bates and am delighted to be compared to her.  I find her personality sunny and delightful.  I don’t know what his problem is.   My brother and I had a few dustups as we grew up together, but goodness gracious, what children didn’t?  True, I had to set him straight from time to time, but never actually broke his legs with a sledgehammer.  We were raised in a Christian home and both knew Mother would murder us if we ever harmed each other to the point that one of us had to have stitches or a cast.  Money didn’t grow on trees.  Is there anything at all in this sweet face to suggest a “Kathy Bates” look?

First Grade School Picture

First Grade School Picture

Bad News Travels Fast!

Linda First GradeIn our rural community, we didn’t have phones till the early sixties.Only one or two mothers in the whole community worked.  Most families had only one car, so women were most likely home unless they walked to a near neighbor’s home for coffee accompanied by their infants and toddlers.  The point of this story is, when we got in trouble at school, the news often beat us home.  I don’t know how, but Mother invariably knew what I’d gotten in trouble for.
I suspect my older sister may have ratted me out, or the teacher sent a sneaky note home by her, but news always got home.  A few times, my mother heard through the grapevine.  It was certainly a different day and time.  Should my offense be minor, Mother took care of the problem, but if it were a matter heinous enough to warrant a note or invitation to a conference at school, I had to deal with Daddy.  That was never nice.  It would have been so much happier for me if my parents had held the teacher’s attitude or methods responsible, but alas, the judgment came right back to me.

Travels with Mother

Once we’d gone enough miles it was unlikely we would be apprehended with bathroom destruction with malice aforethought, I pulled into a nice looking station/store.  This one looked like it was progressive enough to have excellent bathroom facilities, which we sorely in needed by now, since Mother was the only one who got to use the restroom at the last stop.  For once, she generously, encouraged her daughters to go first, which we lived to regret. I’d have loved to have laid the blame at her door for what we found.

Marilyn, my youngest sister, rushed in to relieve her agonized bladder.  In three seconds, she rushed out, “Oh, my gosh!  You’ve got to see this!”  

She obviously hadn’t had time to take care of any business. As mother of two teen-aged girls, the manager of a call-center, and youngest of five children, it takes something special to rattle her.

Like an idiot, I followed her in.  Someone, a very healthy eater by the way, had obviously paid a visit. The nauseating smell of fermented feces greeted us as we entered the bathroom.  It was horrendous, but I’ve been known to raise a stink myself.

Upon opening the stall, I saw a perfect liquefied poop sunburst splattered above the toilet.  Obviously, someone in great distress had blown a gasket as just as they stooped to settle in for a satisfying moment of quality time alone.  The toilet fixtures, the wall behind the toilet, the floor, and the stall wall were covered artistically with a thoroughly natural medium. 

It doesn’t bear thinking of the condition of that poor unfortunate perpetrator of the masterpiece as she exited the store! We scurried out to tell the disgusted clerk what we’d found, only to find numerous visitors had already enlightened her.  That’s when we learned about the worst job in the world.  An industrial service was on its way.

Once more, courting legal problems, we decided to stand guard for each other and use the Men’s Room. Normally, I would have been disgusted, but compared to what we’d just seen, it smelled like a rose.

A Hasty Exit: The Bathroom Catastrophe Unveiled

When I left you, the infuriated man had just escorted Mother in the convenience store, had a long conversation with her about how much he missed his sainted mother, bought her coffee and a snack, and made sure she knew where the bathroom was. Not a word in my defense dropped from her quivering lips, nor did she explain the situation.  I guess it was on a need to know basis and he knew just exactly what she wanted him to know.  I wish he’d hung around for the bathroom catastrophe she initiated next.

As I mentioned earlier, Mother’s bathroom stops are leisurely affairs, involving meditation, warm conversation with new friends from the bathroom, and meticulous hand washing. Afterwards she digs lotion from her bag and admires herself in the mirror from every angle. The minimal bathroom break is thirteen minutes.  She flew in ahead of the rest of us as we were making our selections in the store, since it was just a one-occupant bathroom.  In this than a minute she flew out, wiping her wet hands on her jeans. 

“Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“Just as soon as we go to the bathroom.”  I protested. “I haven’t been to the bathroom or paid for my stuff.”

“Let’s go, now!”  Catching that unmistakable look we’d all seen so many times in the past, we left hurriedly, despite that fact that no one but Mother had taken care of any business.   There had to be something terribly amiss.  Mother never got in a rush to get out of a store or bathroom.

The story came out as we drove off.  After Mother flushed the toilet, the tank kept filling.  Ever the good citizen, she removed the tank cover with the intention of jiggling the lever.  Overestimating her abilities, she dropped the tank cover into the toilet bowl, shattering both, hence her hasty exit.  Water had flooded the bathroom and was pouring out into the hall.  As we searched frantically for another rest stop, Mother watched for a police car to pull us over as our full bladders spasmed. I know Mother would have thrown me to the wolves if we’d been apprehended. 

Keep in mind, this is only the first bathroom stop on this trip.

The Most Fun You’ll Never Have, Kathleen’s Amazing Bathroom Tour!

image

Kathleen Swain and her daughters

Upper Left, Linda Swain Bethea, Right, Phyllis Swain Barrington

First Row Left, Kathleen Holdaway Swain (see how deceptively nice she looks)  Connie Swain Miller, Marilyn Grisham
It’s discouraging writing about my mother, Kathleen Holdaway Swain.  Despite my long, rich history of complaining endlessly about the trials of dealing with her, she keeps getting the best of me.  It’s made worse because I tower over her, outweigh her, and am much more physically imposing, but then, who isn’t?  I do my best to take care of her, and should I exhibit the slightest impatience, onlookers treat me like I am maligning a saint.  Granted, she is tiny, far less than five feet tall, has a squeaky Minnie Mouse voice, and looks like a delightful little old church-lady.  Though she smiles and greets every soul she meets, inwardly she is malicious and conniving, constantly plotting to make me look bad.  Sometimes it doesn’t take much.

Not so long ago, my sisters and I took Mother on a girl-trip.  We were laughing just before we got out of the car about the way she’d lecture us against potential bad behavior before she had to drag the five of us hyenas (her word) into a store or business. When we inevitably started to ask for stuff, anyway, despite her stern warning, she’d fix us with a look from Hell and warn, “Don’t start!  Just don’t start!”  That dried us right up.   

First of all, Mother is the slowest person in the history of Motherdom, in case I never mentioned it before.  As she walks along, she keeps a look out for lost coins in the parking lot and frequently finds them, additionally stopping to greet all passersby.  This was the first stop of the trip. I was hurrying ahead leaving her to drag up the rear, since I had to buy gas, thinking my sisters could keep her out of trouble.  Rather than dawdling with them as they got out of the car, she came running behind me like her life depended on not getting left, and believe me, it was not because she intended to buy gas.  She has four daughters to take care of that.  As a joke, she picked it where our conversation left off, calling behind me, “Linda, wait for me!  I want you to buy me…….” 

            Not realizing we had an audience of a couple in their late sixties, I called out behind me, without bothering to look, knowing she was just continuing our conversation from the car.  “Don’t start!  Just don’t start!”  Men in their fifties and sixties just love Mother, assuming she is just a sweet, little old lady, just like their dear mother.  They have no idea of the trouble she is capable of.  The man glared at me, striding into the store, leaving my poor, mistreated, little, old mother alone and uncared for, abandoned in the parking lot.  He took her by the arm and helped her into the store, making sure she had all the attention she needed.  He fixed her up with a sandwich and coffee, after fixing me with a scathing look of hatred.  I had no idea what I might have done till she rubbed my nose in it later.  I only wish he’d hung around long enough to know she was on her way to destroy the bathroom, literally, but more on that tomorrow.

To be continued…….

Grumpy Santa

As you can see, Bud has white hair and beard. It wouldn’t be a great leap for him to be mistaken for Santa Claus. One hot August evening we were in Target. Bud was wearing a red pullover when we stumbled up on a Christmas display. In his typical fashion, Bud launched into his familiar diatribe about rushing the season and the over commercialization of Christmas.

Amidst his complaints, I noticed a four-year-old boy staring at him in wonder. The tyke obviously thought he’d stumbled up on Santa in Target. I alerted Bud, who immediately changed his manner.

“Merry Christmas, kid.” he said.

Favorite Meals

What are your family’s top 3 favorite meals?

My family’s favorite meal was always roast beef in gravy with potatoes. If they didn’t polish it off at dinner, the kids cleaned up the leftovers for breakfast. Home fried chicken with mashed potatoes was always welcomed cordially. Another thing they loved was to come in from school and find soup simmering in the crockpot. They’d dive right in and have dinner then and there. Should they be patient enough to wait, they could have cornbread with it. I left soup going in the crockpot a lot, knowing the kids were always ravenous when they got off the bus.

More Travels with Mother

hotmama.https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/05/the-low-down-on-lunch-with-mother/
Travels With Mother (Part 2)

The Most Fun You’ll Never Have, Kathleen’s Amazing Bathroom Tour!

It’s Not What You Tank!

 

God was with us.  We got to our destination, Hot Springs, Arkansas without a lot more drama.  We checked into our room, a nice suite with two king-sized beds and an extra bed for the fifth in our party.  For some reason, though it was 104 degrees, we freshened up a bit before going out to see the town, allowing us to start out with a less vintage sweat.  Within minutes, we were rank.  Not to be deterred by a little thing like heat exhaustion, we explored every shop on Main Street, till Mother found a little shop selling belly-dancing costumes. She wouldn’t be budged.  Now, as I’ve said before, Mother is tight.  She had no intention of making such a frivolous purchase, but had to admire herself in one. Every inch of the stifling shop was crammed with exotic outfits with no space devoted to dressing rooms. The proprietor obviously didn’t expect belly-dancers to be overly modest. Not to be denied, Mother just slipped her favorite on over her clothes, despite the heavy customer traffic. She is a little old church lady, after all.  I would never have expected so much business in a store selling belly-dancing costumes. 

Mother had us hold her things while she tottered and struggled into her racy choice, bumping customers at every turn.  They had to have thought her mind was gone and we should have looked out for her better, or that we were in geriatric sex-trade, pimping her out to some perverted creature with a fetish for demented, antique belly-dancers.  Neither choice made us look good.  Eventually, she pranced a bit and had us take a picture or two for her Sunday School Class, before being convinced to leave.  The store clerk was not amused by any of this, but I figured if she thought she was big enough to straighten Mother out, she could go for it.  I know when I am whipped. 

Bigsmilemotorcyclemama

An amused motorcycle guy and his girlfriend were taking all this in and invited Mother to meet their friends waiting on their bikes just outside. I think the burly guys exact words were, “She reminds me so much of my mama!” With him as Mother’s escort, we escaped the wrath of the store owner who was obviously thought it was past time we left.

Mother charmed his friends.  Her new friend invited her for a ride, which she refused, but she did climb behind him on his bike to get her picture made.  Regretfully, he helped her off, after telling her, “Ma’am, you don’t have to go home with these girls if you don’t want to.  We coaxed her away after she exchanged phone numbers and addresses with them, insisting they all come visit.  
Later that evening, we made it back to our hotel, only to find the air-conditioning and bathroom both out of order in our room.  Mother took charge, went to see the manager, and got us transferred to the only room they had left, the Presidential Suite, complete with a hot-spring bath.  I suspect the manager thought, “She reminds me of my mama.”  For once, a bathroom drama with Mother worked in our favor.

We enjoyed the rest of our visit.  On the way home, my sister Connie hung her purse strap on a toilet handle and broke the toilet in a station.  She takes after Mother.